


Memories

by ChaoticCoffee



Category: Hazbin Hotel
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticCoffee/pseuds/ChaoticCoffee
Summary: This will be my own take on what happened to Alastor in his human life, I don’t take any credit for the creation of the story and simply did this for a bit of fun. If you liked this I’m willing to continue posting stories on here; once again, this is simply fanfiction and not cannon, I do not own the character in this story.
Kudos: 4





	Memories

Mistakes, wrongdoings, transgressions, crimes, all words most would use to describe Alastor's life if they were aware of what had transpired during the night, the dark breezy nights of New Orleans when he was not hosting his show, when his charms were useful for not only hiding what most would consider dreadful crimes, but for also luring in his prey; those unknowing few no one would miss. The nights during New Orleans could be bright, music, smiles, food, and much more, but other areas of the city were not as blessed, this is where he found his victims. These victims he turned into art, yes exquisite art, the flowing shades of red when you cut them open, their organs created an oddly calming mismatch of colors, their bones such an indescribable white, unique to each person; their liver a tasteful brown, and their heart....the thing that once pulsated with such vigor, that red, red, that amazing color that brought him such joy, such childish joy it made his smile true, genuine, seeing those colors, their screams ringing in his ears.

Childish, ah yes, that word brings him back to his youth; he could remember that horrid state as though it were yesterday; but his mother was at least a small light in the time in which he was so pathetic. Red, that was her favorite color, and roses; a favorite flower of hers. Such beauty, but they were dressed with thorns, much like his strong and kind mother, she was so sweet and knew exactly what to say, such an independent woman. His father however did not like that at all, he was much more like a weed; almost everyday he would return home, the stench of alcohol and smoke laced every inch of him, the disgusting and horrible stench of a dreadful man. As a child he could never stop his father from hurting his mother, he had tried many times to, believe him he did; but every time he was pushed away by his father, time and time again he was bruised just like his mother.

A painful memory, remembering how weak he was...how he cried. Pathetic, as an adult now he understood that tears did no one any good; all it did was make you weak. People would use your sadness to their own advantage, comfort was simply lies that most told others to make them feel better. How sickeningly sweet that was, he supposed if he were to thank his father for one thing that thing would be the bastard teaching him that no one was going to care for him. He'd stopped trying to find someone who did a very long time ago, friends become acquaintances, a lover becomes nothing more than another stranger, this all happened in his adolescence; the time in his life when he learned the only way to get anywhere in life was to step over anyone in your way. To be better, to be better than his dreaded father, he'd surpassed all his father had done in life. Now there was even more sins he'd need to commit to get ahead, he didn't mind; this is what one needed to do. What was required to get what you want.

His father was the one he was so hellbent on being better than, but in the end.....he only became a violent monster. Ha, monster wasn't even the half of it; but what good was a monster if they weren't feared? Alastor was respected, and had power, something even his death couldn't take from him was his status. He gained it back almost as quickly as he'd lost it. Of course, even flooding his thoughts and trying to repress them they always came back; these dreaded memories that would replay like a broken record in his mind.

He had been about sixteen when his mother bought him that radio, she'd worked so hard to get it, so hard. Alastor adored it, he could drown out the regular yelling, the screams, the crashing, it was regular, and it made his blood boil. His mother had told him to stand to the side, avoid the conflict but sometimes; he couldn't contain his rage, he'd try to intervene. Useless, he'd receive the same results as he always did, a black eye here, bruises, and each time he'd be left in tears, only able to look at his helpless mother in defeat for he was as helpless as she when it came to his father. One day though she had taken a stand, now eighteen year old Alastor had heard it from his room; whenever his father returned home it was where he would reside, ready to turn the dial to his sweet escape. The yelling started the same as always, his mother's voice was not laced with sadness as it was when she cried this time, not at the beginning, but as the argument progressed he could hear her cries. This was another one of those nights when young Alastor wanted to stop his father; an idiotic idea almost every time but hearing his mother's word in the beginning had given him a false sense of courage, "i'm not afraid, we're finished. You can't treat me this way anymore," that is what she'd said. Who knew that those would be some of the final words she'd utter; for when Alastor had rushed into the living area to look for his parents he found them both, his mother on the floor, bloody, cold, and dead, along with his father standing over her with a knife.

Recounting the memory now his clawed hands had gripped into the armchair from which he sat, such a weak stomach he had possessed when he was younger. Another pathetic aspect of himself he was happily avoiding now, but yes; back to his mother's murder...It would appear his father had no remorse for his actions because not only was that deep red rushing from her, but it stained his father's clothes, hands, and face. A smile...a smile was on his father's face, he could remember that smile even now in his afterlife. His father had enjoyed it, he could see it in his eyes...the brown eyes he shared with his father, another feature he hated. He hated looking like his father, his hair color, his facial features; all of it was distasteful in life. Looking exactly like that pitiful excuse of a man; Alastor's disliking of his human form aside this game his father and mother had been playing, this wicked dance of fighting back and forth had come to a bloody ending, his father reigning victorious. Alastor could remember how sickening seeing his first body had been, he'd ended up hurling their dinner from earlier onto the floor. That was what had alerted his father of his presence, he could still remember how his father had cut him. How he'd been forced to the ground, screaming and crying, helplessly kicking and begging for mercy as tears streamed down his face like a waterfall.

Alastor swore to his father he wouldn't say a thing, that didn't seem to matter though; in the end he was laced with cuts from the very same knife that had killed his dear mother; each cut he'd have to promise he wouldn't say a word, and each time his father wouldn't believe him, then came another cut, and another. The woman he had cooked with, laughed with, talked with, the same woman who was now dead was the one who brought on his love for the radio, the only one who'd ever cared was dead. He wished it had been him, he truly wished it had, and the scars he were left with even in death were even horrible reminders of his failure to protect her.

He ran a hand down his face, bringing his thoughts back to the present; an attempt for Alastor to collect himself. These damned flashbacks had been getting worse and worse, he remembered more and more of what'd he suppressed for all those years. The familiar and poignant taste of vomit could still be felt in his mouth whenever he remembered his mother's passing, he hated it all. They brought back feelings, smells, tastes. Disgusting memories that felt more like hell than the place where he already resided now. These were much different, you couldn't get rid of a memory as easily as you could a person, same as his father had forced him to bury his mother in the woods....same as he'd taken a knife while his father was sleeping a few weeks after his mother's death. The sound of his father's screams...the sound of the blade tearing through his flesh; This time he did not feel sick, no this time he was the one smiling, and it was at that moment that he understood the true beauty of the color red.

His father was his very first kill, and he could remember the exact feelings that flooded all of his senses. He was ecstatic, the sublime rush it gave him seeing his father now the lifeless one; he'd avenged his mother and after the rush, he felt pride. Pride that he'd finally slain the beast that was his father, now of course Alastor could not remain in his family's home, questions would be asked. So Alastor set the place aflame, taking only his beloved radio with him. Running to his neighbors to put on a show. He'd been the only one to make it out, that's what was said, and by the time anyone would arrive to place the flames out his father would be burned to an unrecognizable crisp. It was time his father received a proper death for his crimes anyways, he saw it only fitting the man be burned down with the household he had ruined on the inside out with his drinking and abusive ways.

Alastor was happy to have those memories of his childhood out of the way, of course the ones where he first began his career as well as started his killings were pleasant and delightful memories but not all was smooth sailing of course. At the beginning he was simply getting by at his first job, a banker....an utterly boring and repetitive job but Alastor had always had a gift with numbers so he supposed it was best he used them at that time otherwise he may have never had a place to live. He started killing during the night a couple years into that dreaded job, that rush he got when killing them was always the best part....and that color again, red. The best color there ever was, one he would never forget. One night as he was enjoying cutting up another victim though he got a wonderful idea, food had been scarce recently in his city so why not put these bodies to use? 

That was the first time he'd tasted human flesh, he'd never regret that choice; it was exquisite. The multiple different flavors were all so unique and new, and they tasted delicious, he decided to do this more often for quite some time, cooking and even garnishing the different human organs with spices and sauces, it only made the body parts taste even better! Venison had been Alastor's favorite food for quite a long time, his father was a hunter. He would make that food but once his father had started to drink in Al's youth it had all gone downhill and his father had stopped hunting all together. Alastor didn't mind though, he didn't want to have to eat what that man brought home ever again. Consider him ungrateful, but he hated taking anything from his father. Luckily that wasn't a problem now, he had found his own food, and it was delicious. He needn't take anything from anyone anymore now.

More time passed and Alastor had finally been able to get a job at a radio station and soon enough he was hosting his own show. The memory brought a grin on the Radio Demon's face, as he reminisced and how he had reached his dream despite what people said about him. He didn't need pity for what had happened with his father, he didn't need to be ridiculed when he was dead for the crimes he committed in life. He'd lived his best life in his eyes, he was the radio host with the shining smile! He was adored and loved by many, he would've never changed that; he'd never change the look of fear on his victim's faces and he'd never forget the looks of admiration, longing, and jealousy he received on the streets of New Orleans, everything was going his way. Until it wasn't.

One night he'd grown impatient, Alastor had attempted to kill someone without taking them to his home first, he didn't take precautions of drugging someone, knocking them out, or even a drunk man who he could pretend he was taking back to his own home to rest, and even worse; he'd let them slip from his grasp in his haste. The cops were involved, they'd ran to a home and alerted the authorities; that's when the chase began, both Alastor, the cops, and their loyal mutts running through the woods; The hunt was on. Alastor had come so far, he'd killed more than his father, he'd hunted more deer and mounted more heads on his wall than his father ever had, he'd been more successful, yet here he was...his own demise so close as he could hear the barking almost right on his heels, already feeling the horribly sharp pain of those pointed teeth that he knew was to come. No, No, he couldn't die here...he couldn't die as the prey. He'd been a hunter all his life, he shouldn't be the one running, ah dammit, damn it all! There was nothing more Alastor could do....he knew he couldn't do more. That pathetic thought was the last thing that ran through his mind before he was caught in the leg by the jaws of that....mongrel. That was not the end though, more rushed towards him, it seemed mercy was not an option for someone such as he; but he wasn't even given the chance of a trail, the chance of a more dignified death, one to be remembered by for what he'd done. No here he laid, on the dirty ground of a forest, a place he found quiet and tranquil, not even given a chance at life because of the authorities idiotic choice of letting the dogs run without a leash; they'd been far too slow to get to him in time. How hopelessly sad his end was...they teared through his flesh easily and he cried and screamed once more. Something he hadn't done in years, he'd instead caused other's to do what he hated to do, show weakness. All the while he kept a smile plastered on his face. Now the unbearable pain flooding his body kept going for what seemed like forever; causing him to feel the pain he'd caused so many others until.....he felt nothing.

Alastor could still remember the first time he'd opened his eyes after landing in hell, as well as the first time as he looked in the mirror. He'd take the form of a deer, another pathetic thing about himself; staying the prey. No, standing from the arm chair and shaking his head as he cupped a hand over his mouth. Taking deep breaths to remove those dreaded memories from his thoughts, closing his eyes he listened to nothing but the dead silence around him from where he was in his home. Opening his eyes after a while he removed his hand from his mouth, laughing as he made his way up the stairs of his home. No, he was no prey; despite this form he was still a predator. Just look at his walls, decorated with the heads of demons instead of deer, he was still a hunter, he just had a temporary setback and a change of prey. He'd climbed the ranks down here with ease and he didn't plan on stopping. As he climbed the stairs and went to his room he opened the door's to the balcony of his home and looked out into the streets of hell. He had a large home, power, and would have more, he would be sure of that. What more could he want? Alastor froze as he actually thought of what he'd want instead of this before he shook his head. Wishing was for weaklings, and he didn't need anything else besides the fear of others.

Every demon down here would bow to him, soon enough...soon enough. Clearing his throat Alastor fixed his bow tie and sighed; he could use some air after those memories flooded into his head. They took up too much space and brought back too many feelings he'd rather not feel; so with that thought Alastor snapped his fingers, his trademark cane that possessed a microphone on the top of it appeared in his hand. After that Alastor left his home and made his way onto the streets of hell, taking in deep breaths of the air around him. Making his way from his home he decided it was time find a few more....co-stars, so he could have another braodcast; nothing would make this demon weak ever again, Alastor promised himself that much; and he was a man of his word.


End file.
